‘You’ve found a way of dealing with Billy?’ I smiled.
‘He’s escaped, Constable, that’s why. Disappeared overnight, run away.’
‘You mean you’ve dumped him somewhere, Claude? Taken him on to the moors and left him? You know it’s a criminal offence to abandon an animal in circumstances likely to cause it unnecessary suffering?’
‘I said the goat had run off, Constable, and if I say that, then that’s what happened. Anyroad, goats are naturally wild, there’s a herd of wild goats in Northumberland and some more in Wales, so if he’s living wild, he’ll cope. So long as there’s no car headlights to distract him.’
With no more cases of headlamp butting, the saga of the Greengrass billy goat faded in my mind and I must admit I thought I’d heard the last of Claude’s problem. Later, when I popped into the Hopbind Inn at Elsinby one lunchtime on a duty visit, I found the place full of regulars. The bar was always full, even on a midweek lunchtime, and when he saw me, Gilbert Kingston, the postman, called, ‘Ah, Nick, have you heard about the White Calf of Elsinby?’
‘I know the legend, yes.’ I wondered what had rekindled interest in this ancient tale.
‘Have you been about at night lately? In Elsinby?’ asked Gilbert.
‘On and off, yes, routine patrols, that sort of thing.’
‘You’ve not seen the white calf then?’
‘No,’ I shook my head. ‘Why? Have there been reports about it?’
‘A few, yes, some locals reckon they’ve seen a white calf in Elsinby Forest, among those red deer, there’s been day and night sightings, mostly at night though. The trouble is the forest is so dense and very dark at night, even where it borders the road, and the calf’s lost very quickly. If you try to get near it on foot, it just disappears into the undergrowth.’
‘If it is the fabled White Calf of Elsinby, then it’s a revival of the legend,’ I said. ‘Does that mean folks are getting worried in case it visits the churchyard?’
‘They are, Nick. Harold Poulter’s down there every night, watching his ancestors’ graves in case the white calf decides to pay a visit. Mind you, if it calls at any other grave, he’ll soon let the relatives know.’
‘I’ll keep an eye open on my rounds,’ I promised.
Legends of this kind are inevitably intriguing, and it was quite surprising to find grown men in the 1960s who still believed in such things, but I knew better than to mock the good folk of Elsinby. If, for any reason, the White Calf of Elsinby did visit the churchyard I knew the villagers would be very alarmed and worried and so I decided to maintain my own vigil. I had no intention of spending hours on guard, but I would keep my ears and eyes open for sightings whenever I was on patrol. If I did spot the animal, though, I decided not to alarm anyone by mentioning it!
Late one Friday evening, though, in pitch darkness, I parked my Mini-van close to the wall of the parish churchyard in Elsinby, for I wanted to undertake a night foot patrol in the village.
There’d been reports of someone prowling around in the darkness, entering gardens and greenhouses and wandering in the fields behind the cottages, and so I wanted to merge into the shadows while I kept observations. I found nothing, but I think the occasional sight of my uniform was reassuring to those who saw me, and then, as I was returning to my parked van, I saw Harold Poulter running from the churchyard, clearly terrified.
‘Oh, thank God, Nick,’ he panted when he saw me. ‘It’s in there . . . the white calf, foraging around the graves like the legend says . . . I daren’t look any more . . . I daren’t.’
‘Are you sure?’ I asked. ‘It’s not a dog or something, is it? And I reckon if it was a deer, you’ll have frightened it away!’
‘I didn’t stop to look, I don’t want to know if it’s visiting my ancestors’ graves . . . anyway, you go and have a look; you’re not local, you’ve no ancestors there so you’ve nothing to lose and it’ll confirm what I saw. I’ll wait here.’
He had left the gate open and so I entered in silence, my night vision being sharp and my boots soft enough not to make any sound on the stone footpath. The reflected light of the village was sufficient for me to see my way between the tombstones and then I saw it — a white shape moving among the tombstones in the far corner. I froze. I had no wish to startle the beast and I did want to find out what it was doing, wondering why this young calf had left the herd which lived three or four miles away in the forest.
But the combination of darkness, dense undergrowth in that part of the churchyard, and the arrangement of the tombstones, meant I could not obtain a very clear view. But I could confirm Harold’s sighting.
And then the animal leapt. With an agile bound it leapt on to the boundary wall, halted for a moment, then dropped down the far side out of my sight, but it was on the wall top long enough for me to catch sight of its horns in a beam of light from a street lamp, and to note its crisp white coat. But young deer did not carry horns, did they? And hadn’t its figure been rather too heavy for a young deer? Its legs too short? And its neck also too short?
I was sure I had seen Claude Jeremiah Greengrass’s billy goat and my suspicion was confirmed when I heard the distinctive crash of glass — after leaping over the wall, it had found my van! Then, even as I was galloping out of the churchyard, I heard the second crash of glass with Harold shouting obscenities. When I returned to my van, it had two smashed headlights and Harold said, ‘It was a bloody goat, Nick, and it had a go at your van . . .’
‘So much for the fabled White Calf of Elsinby!’ I said. ‘This is Greengrass’s doing, turning it loose! Where did it go?’
‘It ran along that lane and into the field, you’ll never catch it.’
‘But I’ve a witness! Claude will get a bill for this.’
‘Well, at least it settles things for me. I know I haven’t seen the White Calf of Elsinby on my ancestors’ graves, and that’s a relief!’
‘You can go home and rest in peace, Harold. And I’ll go and book off duty, it’s getting on for midnight. See you tomorrow.’
‘Night, Nick.’
Although the glass on my police van’s headlights was broken, the bulbs were still in working order and so I could guide the vehicle slowly home. Tomorrow, I would have to persuade Greengrass to retrieve his goat before it did any more damage. Wherever it had chosen for its den it seemed it was roaming around Elsinby at night-time, making the villagers think prowlers were at large. I thought the best way to persuade it to surrender was to line up rows of old cars so that it could attack each of them in turn, then we could catch it! Or Greengrass could . . .
All these ideas were flooding my mind as I chugged slowly home on my damaged lights, but then, as I turned a corner at the edge of the forest, a herd of red deer leapt out ahead of me and darted across the road into the trees at the far side.
And among them I was sure there was a splendid lithe white calf . . .
Chapter 4
Eric Robshaw lived all alone in a superb detached house at the eastern end of Aidensfield. From the front of his home, which was slightly elevated within its own spacious grounds, he enjoyed wonderful and far-reaching views towards the moors. A long, gently sloping valley lay behind his home and this was conveniently hollow-shaped so that it provided extensive views from his garden towards the distant North Sea. Called Shakespeare House, after the whim of some previous owner, it was a solidly built stone house with a blue slate roof, the whole of which might have been designed by a schoolchild. From the front it looked that kind of house — an almost square and rather plain shape with an oblong door in the middle of the ground floor front wall and large double windows, expensively curtained, at each side. The curtains were always closed at night, and all the ground floor windows bore net curtains; even the smallest windows in a rear porch had nets over them. There were three matching windows on the first floor too, also heavily curtained, with net curtains in position during the daytime hours. To add to the childish design there was a set of chimney p
ots at each end of the roof, although smoke rarely issued from them.
To the east, when looking at the front door, there was a single-storey building, an annexe of some kind, while to the west a similar shaped structure served as a double garage. Certainly, this very symmetrical and somewhat simply designed house was very imposing, in spite of its plain architecture, and it was the sort of home many would like to own if they could afford both to buy and maintain it.
From its external appearance it was clear that Eric loved his home because he kept it, and the surrounding garden, in pristine condition. In many respects, though, Eric was something of a mystery. He was not married, and so far as anyone knew, never had been. To my knowledge, he did not go out to work; he had never had a job since coming to Aidensfield, nor had he followed a profession of any kind.
He never popped into the pub for a drink or mixed socially with the other villagers, although he did attend the Anglican church. He lived completely alone, there being no sign of his mother, father or other members of a family. Indeed, no housekeeper or local cleaner visited his home and when he had his groceries delivered they had to be taken to the rear of the house and placed on a shelf inside the back porch. Likewise, parcels and other large deliveries were always left in that porch. No one local ever gained access to Eric’s fine home and whenever he wanted work doing on the house he always secured the services of an appropriate expert from some distance away; his expert helpers were always strangers to Aidensfield.
An expert horticultural designer looked after his garden, expert decorators attended to the interior and exterior of Shakespeare House, expert mechanics looked after his ancient Armstrong Siddeley car, an expert tailor made his very smart clothes while an expert shoemaker tended his expensive footwear. With such expensive tastes it was not unexpected that Eric was the smartest and most expensive-looking person in Aidensfield. There was not an ounce of countryman about him. He looked like an import from Chelsea, or some other fashionable area of London.
Indeed, he was the most exquisitely dressed man I had ever encountered, and his whole demeanour was one of effortless elegance accompanied by exquisite taste with, apparently, no expense spared. He was approaching sixty, I estimated, with a head of well-groomed hair, (tended by an expert in Leeds), which still retained some of its dark colouring, albeit etched with silver but showing no sign of thinning at the crown or temples. He wore gold-rimmed spectacles and I think he possessed all his own very white teeth; his complexion was pink and healthy, and he boasted a lithe, slim body complemented by his impressive height of just over six feet. He walked with an easy grace, not using a walking stick, and he never seemed to be in a hurry.
His cut-glass accent contained more than a suggestion of an aristocratic background and even when dressed for relaxation in his garden, or merely to go for a stroll in the countryside, he dressed as if he was attending a royal garden party, or on his way to meet some very important person. Sometimes, he wore a smart panama hat and carried a folded umbrella, but he never seemed to buy his clothes from local shops or visit the homes of Aidensfield people. He obtained his groceries locally, however, and these were delivered to the rear porch of his house. It seemed he had no desire for anyone to enter his home and I knew of no one, other than his imported experts, who had progressed beyond the smart white front door with its gleaming brass knocker. Truly, the suave Eric Robshaw was a man apart; furthermore, he seemed determined to maintain his distance from other human beings, particularly those living in Aidensfield.
When he attended church, so I had learned from those who supported the Church of England, he occupied the front pew on the right when facing the altar, and he was always first in the line for Holy Communion, but he never lingered afterwards for a chat with the vicar or a cup of coffee in the church hall. He simply nodded a gracious thank you to the vicar and walked home in his lofty elegance. His other outings seemed few and far between, although on one occasion I noticed his lovely old Armstrong Siddeley pull up outside a smart hotel in Ashfordly, to discharge a splendidly attired Eric. It seemed he was attending a function of some kind, although in what capacity I never knew. On another occasion I saw him enter a solicitor’s office in Ashfordly, leaving his car outside the front door.
His determination to live apart and in isolation from the rest of the village gave rise to rumours about his origins, but that’s all they were — rumours — because no one knew anything about his background. Inevitably, his demeanour created gossip and speculation, but no one knew any hard facts about him. Probably due to his smart, expensive and rather exclusive appearance, some thought he had a titled background, others thought he was a secret millionaire, a major businessman, or a former film star; some wondered if he was anything to do with television while others felt he might be a famous author or composer working under a pseudonym, while yet more believed he was related to the royal family and some speculated that he had won a fortune on the football pools or was even a retired gangster. He was not from old Aidensfield stock — Shakespeare House had appeared on the market some years before I arrived as the village constable and Eric had bought it.
I think he had been a resident in the village for more than twenty years, but until his arrival in Aidensfield, no one in the village had previously met or encountered him. It seemed he had never visited the village, either on business or as a tourist. No one knew where he had come from — even the estate agent who had sold the house to him had dealt through a third party, although the removal trucks which brought his belongings had a Kensington, London address. Those who had caught sight of his belongings being unloaded all those years ago spoke of also seeing of volumes of antique furniture, lots of oil paintings, rare books, sets of expensive chinaware and a wonderful range of silver plate — but apart from that, he might have originated anywhere.
But Eric fuelled the mystery by steadfastly declining to talk about his background or his origins and life before coming to Aidensfield. In spite of the curiosity of the villagers, and in spite of living in the village for a couple of decades or so, he had successfully managed to retain complete confidentiality about his own affairs. If anyone was bold or cheeky enough to ask him a leading question about himself he had the ability to avoid a direct answer, and he did so with a smile and with the utmost grace. Charm was built into Eric, but no one — not even me — knew anything about him — and that was no mean achievement in any village, let alone Aidensfield. Part of that success, I was sure, was due to the fact that no one had ever been inside his house. One’s home so often provides clues to one’s personality, occupation, background and interests, and it likewise displays artefacts which provide topics for discussion. But Eric’s relationship with Aidensfield offered no such titbits.
As a village policeman, however, there was usually cause to visit most of the homes on my patch at least once. Often, these visits were for trivial reasons, such as attending to a piece of lost or found property, or there might be more serious reasons, such as asking for sightings of passing villains or even attending a crime reported within the household. Other reasons for calling at houses included the renewal of firearms certificates, witness statements to obtain for other police officers, dealing with neighbourly complaints, offering crime prevention advice or interviewing householders for a wide variety of reasons. Sometimes, I just popped in for a chat, especially if the householder was alone and vulnerable. But not once had I had cause to visit Shakespeare House for a meeting with Eric Robshaw and not once had he come to me for help or advice.
His only contact with me occurred whenever he met me in the street, in which case he would bid me ‘Good day, Constable’ as he walked past. And that was all. He seemed unwilling to gossip about the daily trivia of village life and even if something serious occurred within his knowledge, like a traffic accident in the village, or a farm fire, he would show no inclination to stop for a natter about it. Clearly, Eric lived in a world of his own, one which he had no desire to change.
Then something str
ange happened. PC Alf Ventress was on duty in Ashfordly Police Station one morning when I popped in to collect my internal mail and police circulars. As I was emptying my pigeon-hole the telephone rang. Alf responded with ‘Ashfordly Police Station, PC Ventress speaking’ whereupon the caller identified herself as the supervisor in Ashfordly Telephone Exchange.
Alf listened for a moment, then said, ‘Well, actually, it’s fortunate that the local constable has just walked into the office, I’ll put him on,’ and he held out the receiver for me to take.
‘PC Rhea,’ I introduced myself.
‘It’s the telephone exchange, Mr Rhea, I’m the supervisor, Mrs Browning. I wonder if you can help?’
‘Try me,’ I challenged.
‘We’re getting strange noises on one of our lines, Mr Rhea, they sound as if they’re coming from an empty house. It’s an Aidensfield number, the phone’s off the hook. There’s lots of echoes in the background and what sounds like banging on a wooden floor and a man groaning, but our operator can’t get any sense from whoever it is.’
‘Empty house?’ I puzzled. ‘I don’t know of any empty houses in Aidensfield.’
‘And we have no record of any houses which have asked to be disconnected due to being empty or through people leaving. Anyway, the number is Aidensfield 376 and the subscriber is a Mr Robshaw at Shakespeare House. It sounds as if he needs help of some kind, Mr Rhea, so I thought I’d better call the police. We did ring your house but got no reply.’
‘My wife has taken the children to see some friends,’ I said. ‘OK, leave it with me.’
After explaining this to Alf I left immediately and rushed back to Aidensfield in my little police van, driving straight along to Shakespeare House.
CONSTABLE AROUND THE HOUSES a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors Page 8
